


tainted hearts

by AliuIce0814



Series: Frank Castle's SHIELDverse [1]
Category: Daredevil (TV), Punisher (Comics), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angry Murder Dad, BDSM, Baking, Catholic Frank Castle, Catholic Guilt, Catholic Matt Murdock, F/M, Grief/Mourning, M/M, Military, Multi, Polyamory, Porn, Priests, Roman Catholicism, Seminary School, She Who Must Be Obeyed 'verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-21
Updated: 2016-10-21
Packaged: 2018-08-23 19:48:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,016
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8340385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliuIce0814/pseuds/AliuIce0814
Summary: Frank Castle in four parts.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [LittleBird20](https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleBird20/gifts).



> This story is set in [Not_You's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_You/pseuds/Not_You) She Who Must Be Obeyed 'verse. I would HIGHLY RECOMMEND reading at least some of that first, but here's a quick rundown: 
> 
> -SHIELD is actually an erotic materials-making studio (porn and sex toys. They make porn and sex toys.) Clint, Natasha, and Phil work there.
> 
> -Natasha is a Domme all the time. She is part of a polyamorous group that includes Clint and Nick.

Part One: Deacon Frank

          As they cross through the doorway from the bright heat of a July day to the stale warmth of Rikers, Matt Murdock crosses himself. Frank mirrors him. Yells echo down the concrete hall: _Fuck you, cocksucker!_ And then a response from a guard: _Shut up._

          “This facility can hold up to 15,000 prisoners,” the deacons’ guide, a guard with salt-and-pepper hair, says.

            “Do all of them piss on the walls?” Frank mumbles, eyeing a reeking, dripping patch just inside the nearest cell. Matt jabs him with his sharp elbow. “Get off of me, Murdock, it was a question.”

            “Just keep your mouth shut, Frank. That’s Christ in that cell,” Matt says, gesturing with his white cane. His red-tinted glasses glint in the light that comes through the high barred windows. “And that one.”

            “Matthew 25,” Frank says, “I know.”

            “Hey, Father! Hey,” a prisoner calls from the cell to Matt’s left. He reaches out, dark hand coming from the bars. His fingers brush Matt’s cane. Frank grabs Matt’s shirt, the prison guard lunges, but Matt moves faster than both of them. His fingers come around the prisoner’s wrist in a tight grip Frank knows all too well from the seminarians’ intramural wrestling matches. The prisoner makes a tight, high sound in his throat. The whites of his eyes stand out against his face. “Father?” he says. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I just wanted a blessing.”

            Frank watches the color seep back into Matt’s knuckles as his grip loosens. “Well, I’m not a priest yet. I’m only a deacon. But I’ll bless you anyway if you’d like.”

            “Yeah, okay,” the prisoner says. “Only—couldja let go of my hand?”

            Frank balls his free hand into a fist. His other is still resting in the crook of Matt’s elbow. “I’m going to move it so that you’re holding onto one of the bars,” Matt says. “Keep it there while I bless you. I’m blind, but believe me when I say that I’ll hear you if you move.”

            “Yes, he will,” Frank growls. “Knocked me out the last time we boxed.”

            “Frank,” Matt says in his exasperated voice. The prisoner’s trembling slightly as Matt moves his hand the bar. Matt curls his fingers around it. Then he speaks, hands hovering in the air just above the man’s head. “God, please bless this man. Keep him safe from harm, and guide him on Your path. Do you know St. Patrick’s Breastplate?” Frank bites back a groan. Matt and his Irish prayers. The prisoner shakes his head. “No?” Matt asks. “All right, I’ll teach it to you. This is a prayer you can say any time you need God around you. Repeat after me: ‘Christ be with me, Christ within me, Christ behind me, Christ before me, Christ beside me, Christ to win me, Christ to comfort and restore me. Christ beneath me, Christ above me, Christ in quiet, Christ in danger, Christ in hearts of all that love me, Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.’ God bless you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.”

            The prisoner’s shoulders slump. “Thanks,” he says softly. “Thanks, Father—uh, Deacon?”

            “Matt,” he says. “Matt Murdock.” He pulls away from the guy, from the cell, and walks down the hall in a perfectly straight line. His cane doesn’t even touch the ground. Frank doesn’t get how he senses where he’s going. He glances back at the prisoner only to see him with his forehead pressed against the bars, shoulders shaking. Frank quickly averts his eyes.

            “Sir,” he calls to the prison guard, who’s leading them along again, toward the stairs that’ll take them up to where Father Martin is waiting for them. “What was that man in here for?”

            “Oh, that whole row of cells is rapists,” the guard says, waving his hand. Frank stops. His heart’s thundering in his ears. His mouth goes dry.

            Five steps above him, Matt stops and cocks his head. “Frank, are you coming?”

            Frank can feel his own fingernails digging into the meat of his palms. He grits his teeth and nods. Part of being a priest, he reminds himself. All a part of serving God. He stays silent the whole way upstairs.

            The cells up here are all solitary confinement: rooms, not just columns of bars, with a tiny slit to shove food through. Father Martin’s waiting by the nearest door. He smiles when he sees the group of deacons. “Good afternoon, guys,” he says in his easygoing voice.

            “Good afternoon, Father,” the deacons chorus. Even Frank. Father Martin has that effect on people: he’s half Frank’s size, but he’s got the bearing of a real dad, like Frank’s, the kind of man Frank will obey just because he seems good. He managed banks before God called him, at forty, to go to seminary school. He lived before he gave up his life. Frank appreciates that. The fight doesn’t go out of him—he keeps his fists clenched—but he listens when Father Martin speaks.

            “Before you all disperse—you drew straws to see who was going to the kitchen and who was going to the laundry room, right?” Father Martin asks.

            “Rock-paper-scissors,” Frank says. Laughter ripples through the group.

            Father Martin nods, smiling. “That’s even better. Before you all disperse to either the kitchen or the laundry room, I wanted to let you know what I’ll be doing. This is, as I’m sure Officer Rollins told you, solitary confinement. Now, some of these men will only be in here for a short amount of time, maybe a few hours, because of small offenses incurred here, within the prison. Fights that didn’t cause much injury. That sort of thing. They just need to cool down. But some people live here in solitary confinement.”

            “Mother of God,” Matt whispers. He wets his lips. “That can’t be good for them. No sound? No human interaction? How will that help them heal?”

            Frank huffs out an impatient breath. “What d’they need to heal for? They aren’t the ones getting hurt,” he whispers back. Matt can’t see him, but he makes eye contact with Frank anyway, somehow, just long enough to glare. If Father Martin weren’t here, Frank might indulge in flipping Matt off.

            “I come here to hear Confessions,” Father Martin says. “Every week, when I can. Usually it’s closer to once a month. Sometimes I’m the only visitor the person has that month. The man I’m about to see,” Father Martin gestures toward the cell door next to him, “has been here in solitary for almost seven years.”

            “What?” Matt says sharply. His fingers tighten around his cane. Some of the other deacons whistle.

            Frank runs a hand over his hair. “What did he do?”

            Father Martin looks up at him, over his bifocals. “Do you really want the answer, Frank?”

            Frank understands the implied second half of that question. Father’s posed it to him often enough: _Will knowing help you, or will it just make you angry?_ Now, Frank thinks, _I’m already pissed off._ He can feel the heat in his cheeks. “Just tell me,” he says.

            Father inhales. Exhales. Inhales again. “You’ve heard of the Carolini family?” he asks.

            “Course I have,” Frank says. “Was all over the news when I was in high school. Mom and four kids—” Father Martin’s meaning catches up with him. Frank’s stomach turns. He steps back, then back again, his arms shaking, his whole body shaking. “No. No, Father.”

            “Frank—”

            “No. I can’t. Fuck. No.” Frank’s fingers are scrabbling at his collar. It’s too tight, too hot, too much all at once. He can’t get the damn thing to pop out of his shirt. He’s stumbling down the stairs, vision spotty, fingers still scraping at his neck with no way of removing his collar. He can’t tell if he’s going to hurt someone or be sick.

            “Frank!”

            Frank whirls around just in time to see Matt jump down the last five stairs. He’s not holding his cane—he must have dropped it rushing after Frank. He skids to a stop by Frank, grabbing his wrists in a ferocious grip. When Frank snarls and tries to twist his arms away, Matt holds him tightly enough to bruise. “What are you doing?” Matt says. His blind eyes flick back and forth beneath his red-tinted glasses, as if he’s fighting to see Frank. Frank shakes his head. “What are you doing?” Matt repeats. “Jesus, Frank, your pulse is almost 190.”

            “Did you see the Carolini murder pictures?” Frank spits. He doesn’t bother to correct himself. Matt knows what he means. “The articles? Raped. Garroted. The little girl—the littlest—do you know how old? Three.”

            “Then Peter approaching asked him, ‘Lord, if my brother sins against me, how often must I forgive him?’” Matt says.

            “I don’t care if it’s seven or seven times seventy. I won’t do it,” Frank says. He doesn’t recognize his own voice being twisted from him. He’s almost shouting. He dips his head closer to Matt’s, aware of the eyes and ears on them. He breathes in and out. He lowers his voice. “I want to kill him.” Matt’s grip loosens, like all of his tendons have been cut. Frank twists away from him and tugs at his collar until it pops away from his shirt, snaps breaking. “I would,” he says. He can feel his pulse in all of his veins. He shoves the collar at Matt. “If I was in that room with him. I’d do it. Take it,” he says, pushing the collar against Matt’s unexpectedly limp fingers.

            “You don’t mean it,” Matt says quietly. His fingers close loosely around the collar. “You wouldn’t kill anyone.”

            “Don’t tell me what I mean.” Frank’s voice isn’t shaking anymore. It’s still. Sure. He’s vibrating with rage, but his voice is even. “Don’t tell me to get behind you when you’ve got the devil in you, too.”

            Out, past the piss-soaked wall, through the door to the heat of sunlight. Frank pulls off his button-down shirt and shoves it in the trash can as he goes. He’s got a twenty in his pocket. He’ll take a train to the dorm. Pack. After that?

            Frank feels the violence thrumming beneath his skin. The thunder of his heart in his ears. He pauses, considers. Changes course toward a different train. Someplace he can let the fight out.

#

Part Two: Frank the Soldier

           Matt calls. Frank hangs up. Matt calls. Frank moves. Matt calls. Frank’s phone is disconnected. He won’t need it for basic. For Afghanistan or wherever he’s sent.

            They shave Frank’s hair. His bare head feels good. Feels right. He never liked his hair anyway. Too many tangles.

           He doesn’t outshoot everyone in his class, but he outpunches them. He could knock out Matt now. His knuckles are scarred before he even makes it out of the U.S.

            Frank still prays. For his parents’ souls, always. For safe travels. For the saint of the day. For his platoon—not his friends, but the people he means to defend. For Matt, sometimes. Especially when he’s angry with him. He’s always angry with him. Angry with him for staying, for being holier than Frank could ever be—and then even angrier with him when he gets a letter from Matt, typed meticulously, saying that he left the seminary. He’s in law school now, learning how to defend anyone who can convince him that they’re innocent. He’s with his friend Foggy. Frank’s not jealous. He still wants to kill the man who’s in solitary.

            He kills the Taliban instead. He thought it would be easy. It is easier for him than it is for other guys. He has nightmares, but not like they do. He doesn’t freeze up. He doesn’t hesitate. His captain hates him because he’s willing to drop his gun and punch someone unconscious, and his captain loves him because he’s willing to drop his gun and punch someone unconscious. Frank’s knuckles are so thick with scars that they don’t have any sensation left in them.

            What makes it hard is the kids. Convoys have had to hit kids in the road before. They’re not supposed to swerve. Kids are usually decoys for IEDs. Frank doesn’t meet any of those. He meets dirty-faced boys and girls who tug at his shirt until he plays soccer with them. He ties shoes. He wipes noses on his sleeve. Once, he braids a girl’s hair. It’s sloppy, bumpy. She runs her hand over it and laughs. “No,” she says, shaking her head, and pulls it out. Frank grins back. His chest hurts.

            Killing isn’t hard for him. He’s not worried about the blood on his hands. He’s not worried about his soul. He knows just war theory. He knows those people he kills deserve to die.

            But the kids are hard for him. They’re rough and gentle and curious and afraid, sometimes all at the same time. When he spends those brief moments playing with them, in between killing and killing and killing, he feels like he’s back in the ring with Matt, or back on the playground in elementary school, kicking around a ball with the other kids: free and safe. It’s an illusion for all of them, Frank and the kids. Sometimes they disappear. Sometimes they die. Every night, Frank pulls out his rosary and prays for them, _now and at the hour of our death, amen._ He closes his eyes and thinks about giggles and braids and tiny hands grasping his thumb. He thinks about their mothers, too, or grown-up sisters, lurking around the edge of the games and watching with beautiful dark eyes.

            “The new translator’s here,” Frank’s captain tells the platoon when they wake up in the morning. “Her name’s Maria.”

            She’s willowy, her blonde hair pulled into a sensible ponytail, her body hidden beneath layers of clothing. A couple of men still whistle. “Shut up,” Frank snaps. He pulls himself up tall, straight-backed, so he doesn’t look like the other idiots. He’s not used to smiling a lot, even when he’s not in the middle of a war zone, but he pulls his face into a smile for her. His sunburned cheeks ache. “Ma’am,” he says.

            “Oh, God, don’t start with that,” she says, holding out her hand. It’s shockingly soft and cool between Frank’s callused palms. He swallows. She smiles like she’s reading his mind. He hopes she isn’t; he was celibate for years before he was in the military, so he’s had time to build up some dirty thoughts. But maybe it doesn’t matter. Before she lets go of his hand, Maria winks.

            She’s the youngest of four children. Her dad still lives in Sicily. Her older sister is a nun, and her older brother is a priest. She loves rollercoasters but hates the Tower of Terror. She misses Head and Shoulders shampoo and Bath and Body Works perfume. She can name four constellations when she’s sober and two when she’s drunk. She 4Fed, so she came over to Afghanistan through a private contractor. She speaks six languages. She misses Big Macs. She can rub all the tension out of Frank’s shoulders in three minutes. She only wears lip gloss. She rides a blue motorcycle. She has the whole Titanic film memorized.

            “All three hours?” Frank can’t stop laughing.

            “Oh, come on. It’s romantic,” Maria whines, elbowing him. Frank catches her and spins her around.

            They don’t kiss in Afghanistan, but they kiss in Hell’s Kitchen. By the time they get married, five months after Frank’s tour ends, Maria’s dress curves over her stomach.

#

Part Three: Frank the Dad

           Frank can feel his daughter’s hand through his Maria’s skin. She’s so close to being born, this tiny person who high-fives him sometimes from inside her mom. “Sweet girl,” he says.

            “Only sweet because she’s not kicking you,” Maria grumbles. Frank pulls himself up beside her and kisses her. She nips his mouth and pushes him away. “No kisses until you help me pick out a name.”

            “Oh, come on, Maria,” Frank grumbles. Maria raises her eyebrows. Frank puts his hands in the air, surrendering. “I don’t know,” he says. They’ve been arguing about names since Maria found out she was pregnant, primarily because Frank won’t choose. To be honest, he doesn’t give a damn what his kid’s named as long as she gets here safe. But Maria refuses to choose a name on her own, even though Frank keeps reassuring her that whatever name she chooses will be beautiful. He’s starting to worry that they’ll end up with a kid who’s just named Baby Girl Castiglione. Frank’s already preparing to fight off any of his child’s bullies. He doesn’t want to make any for her. He sighs and rubs his fuzzy head. Needs to get his hair buzzed again, though Maria likes the stubble. “Okay, go through the list again.”

            “Theresa Marie, Mia Giovanni, Emily Victoria, Claire Renae, Lisa Ann, or Mary Catherine,” Maria recites. She crosses her arms over her chest. It’s hard with the baby in the way. “I’m surprised you don’t have the list memorized by now.”

            “Not Mary Catherine,” Frank says. “Too Irish.”

            “Matt would love it,” Maria says.

            “Exactly.”

            Maria rolls her eyes. “Frank.”

            Frank shrugs. “Now you go. Get rid of one.”

            “Mia,” Maria says immediately. “Mia Giovanni Castiglione, Frank, come on.” Frank’s pouting the best he can. He’s sure the effect is ruined by his two-hundred-plus-pounds of mostly muscle, but he can always try. “You know I’m the last person to say a name’s too Italian, but…”

            “Yeah, yeah, it’s too Italian. Okay.” Frank heaves a sigh. “Emily Victoria.”

            “Yeah, that one’s a little pretentious.” Maria runs her fingers through her hair. Her nails snag on a tangle. Frank quickly rescues her before she gets frustrated. “What are we down to? Theresa Marie and Lisa Ann?” Frank nods. Maria combs her hair again, more carefully this time. “Not Theresa Marie,” she says slowly. “I don’t know. It just feels old. Like a nun. Not like our baby. Who needs to _stop kicking me,”_ she adds, glaring at her stomach.

            Frank hauls her onto his lap. “Shh,” he says, breathing in her vanilla lotion and her apple shampoo. “Shh, Lisa.” He runs his hand over Maria’s stomach. “Or I’ll have to teach you how to box.”

            “No, no, no,” Maria groans. Frank buries his face in her hair and smiles.

 

            Lisa’s a good-sized baby when she comes. Seven pounds, six ounces. She still fits in just one of Frank’s arms.

 

            Frank liked the Marines. He really did. He was glad to do his first tour in Afghanistan. He liked doing the right thing. He feels less glad when he has to leave Maria, one-year-old Lisa, and her unborn baby brother behind. He doesn’t kill less—he’s not softened that way, never will be. If anything, he kills more, shooting through insurgents’ temples and snapping their necks. He’s brutal, efficient. He can’t always wash the blood off; where he travels, there’s little water. When little girls want him to braid their hair now, he asks them if they want a French braid or a fishtail.

            He plans to Skype Maria when the baby’s born, but he’s pinned down in Kandahar. No Internet. No cell reception. No radio reception, either, and no wavelength safe enough for the Marines’ transmissions. Frank and his platoon are on their own.

            “Wanna go home,” the kid next to him whimpers. When did Frank get old? “Want my dad.”

            Frank lures the insurgents into the open with his own body. He kills them with his own body too, barehanded. He catches them under their jaws with his fists the way Matt would to knock them out and then kicks their faces until they’re unrecognizable, just blood and bone. The youngest kid in his platoon is too scared to walk. Frank heaves him over his shoulders and carries him to the nearest base.

            The medics crowd around Frank when he reaches the base. They’re panicked, frantic. They make him strip out of his clothes. They wipe him down with wet cloths. One of them sterilizes a needle. They’re shocked when he turns up almost completely clean: he just needs stitches over his left eye.

            “I thought you were dying,” one of the medics says. His face is ashen.

            Frank shakes his head. “Do you have cell service?” he asks. His voice is rough, scratchy from disuse. Or from yelling, maybe. Frank can’t remember much. “My wife might be in labor.”

            “You took too long calling,” Maria says when she picks up the phone. Frank’s heart falls into his stomach. He opens his mouth to apologize, _I’m sorry I didn’t mean to be gone I love you,_ but Maria laughs. It’s soft and tired. A tiny sound echoes in the background. At first Frank thinks it’s a cat meowing. Then Maria says, “Shh, Frankie. Shh, baby boy,” and heat rushes to Frank’s face.

            “Can we call him Junior?” he croaks. “Sounds better.”

            “No, it doesn’t,” Maria says, exasperated. “But you can call him what you want.”

 

            Junior’s bigger than Lisa was. Of course, he’s four months old when Frank comes home. Lisa tries to smack him out of Frank’s arms. She wants to be number one—she still doesn’t understand who this interloper is. Frank cradles them both at once. “It’s okay, princess,” he tells her. “I still love you.”

            “I love you,” Lisa says in her tiny voice. She bumps her head against Frank’s nose. “Stay?”

            Frank thinks about his honorable discharge papers, tucked safely in his duffel bag. He kisses Maria’s forehead and nods. She squeezes his arm tight. “Stay,” he says to Lisa. “Yeah, Dad’s staying.”

            “You have good Irish knuckles,” Matt says.

            Lisa giggles and punches Matt’s open palm again. “Matt, I’m not Irish. You are.”

            “I know,” he says patiently. “I just mean they’re sharp. Could cut someone’s cheeks.”

            Lisa pauses and stares up at Matt, eyes wide. “Really?” she asks. She’s six now, almost seven, a funny age for a kid to be: she thinks she knows everything, but she still worships every good word that comes out of her favorite adults’ mouths. Despite Frank’s best efforts, one of Lisa’s favorite adults is Matt. Junior’s too, but he’s a little too impatient with Matt’s blindness. Lisa’s just old enough to sort of understand it. Matt doesn’t come around a lot, not enough to be ‘Uncle Matt’; his law practice keeps him busy. He’s harder than he was in seminary school. Less likely to smile. Frank doesn’t think he’d pause to pray with an inmate today.

            “Matt?” Lisa asks. Her voice is pensive. Frank looks up from where he’s cutting the crust off her peanut butter and butter sandwich. Her hands dangle by her sides now. “Can girls wrestle?”

            “Of course,” Matt says. Frank relaxes a fraction. Good call, Matt. “Just like girls can box.”

            “But at school they say I can’t.”

            “Who says you can’t?” Frank asks. This is the first he’s heard of this. He keeps his voice even. Really, he does. If he doesn’t, well, he’s lucky Maria’s at karate with Junior.

            Lisa shrugs. “Just everybody.”

            “Well, I say you can.” Frank wipes peanut butter off his hands on his jeans. “Who’s the coach?” Lisa shrugs. “You want to wrestle, Lee?” Lisa chews her lip. She looks back and forth between Frank and Matt, then nods. Frank comes around the table to crouch in front of her. “Then you’re gonna wrestle. Okay, princess?”

            “Will you teach me?” Lisa asks. “Are you gonna be the coach?”

            “I don’t know about that, Lisa,” Matt says. His mouth’s curling up into one of his stupid smirks. “I used to knock out your dad all the time.”

            “‘Used to’, Murdock,” Frank growls. “Not anymore.”

            Matt shrugs. “I don’t know. You haven’t gone up against me in a while.”

            “I don’t have anything to prove,” Frank says, hands bunching into fists.

            Lisa’s looking back and forth between them again, this time with a grin blossoming on her face. She picks up one triangle of her sandwich and climbs onto the couch, giggling.

            “Who do you think will win, Lisa?” Matt asks.

            “Don’t bring my daughter into this,” Frank snaps. His heart’s pounding. He knows what he looks like: scowling, all tight muscles, probably red-faced. He looks dangerous. He is dangerous. Matt smiles wider, showing his teeth. He doesn’t care.

            “Fight!” Lisa yells. “Fight! Fight! Fight!”

            Frank launches at Matt. They’re somewhere between boxing and wrestling, throwing punches and then pulling each other into headlocks. The kitchen chairs crash to the floor. Matt’s glasses slide off his nose and nearly get crushed. Lisa flings cushions off the couch. By the time Maria and Junior get home, Matt and Frank are hitting each other with pillows. Matt freezes when he hears the key in the lock. Frank waits until the door opens to stop. Lisa takes the chance to leap off the couch and onto Frank’s back. Her arms choke him until he lifts her a little higher into a real piggy-back ride.

            “Daddy’s gonna be my wrestling coach,” Lisa says, drumming her stocking feet against Frank’s ribs.

            Maria sets her purse on the kitchen table and leans over to give him a kiss. “Only if he cleans up this mess,” she says. “And only if I get to help.”

           

           “Girls can’t wrestle,” the principal argues.

           “Well,” Maria says smoothly, “I’m sure the Times would like to hear about how sexist you are.”

           The principal orders a wrestling unitard just for Lisa.

           “Girls can’t wrestle,” one of the moms says, her mouth a thin line of disapproval.

           Her seven-year-old daughter looks up from her math homework. “But I want to,” she says wistfully.

           “Come wrestle with me,” Lisa says. She takes the girl’s hand and leads her to the mat.

           “Girls can’t wrestle,” another six-year-old on the team says. Lisa loses her first intramural match to him. Frank scoops her up, this tearful bundle, his baby, and whispers in her ear, “Kill him, princess.” She wins every match against him after that.

 

            They walk to the store to pick out fabric for Lisa’s First Communion dress on a Saturday. Lisa’s been wrestling for a year now; she’s all stringy muscle in the way that kids are when they play sports. She takes boys twice her size to the mat, given the chance. Junior’s still got all his baby fat, but he’s just lost his first tooth.

            “Lift weights with me, Daddy,” he lisps as they loiter between rows of fabric. Frank glances around. Maria’s three aisles over with Lisa, who’s running her fingers over silky white fabric. Frank smiles and puts a shushing finger to his lips. Junior mimics him. Frank looks around again, this time for show. No one else is in the shop except for the owner, who’s about ninety years old and completely consumed in measuring a bold of purple felt. Frank reaches down and hauls Junior up one-handed. He balances him for a moment, parallel to his shoulder the way he would a dumbbell. Then he starts doing reps.

            “One,” Junior whispers, trying to be quiet. “Two.” A giggle worms its way out of his mouth. Frank scowls as much as he can—the more he frowns, the less likely he is to laugh and give them away. That’s a lot harder to control when Junior starts laughing outright at “three.” They make it to “five” before Maria calls, “Frank, honestly?”

            Frank freezes with Junior held high in the air. It is a strain to hold him like that, especially when Junior’s shaking with laughter, but Frank’s got enough muscle mass that the strain doesn’t show. “What?” he says.

            “Oh my god,” Maria says, drawing the “o” in “god” out farther than anyone else Frank knows can. Lisa’s tiptoeing down the aisle, away from her mother. Maria notices and tries to catch her by the back of her shirt, but Lisa’s running, giggling, over to Frank. Maria groans and lets her head _thunk_ against a bolt of white lace. “Oh my god, you idiots.”

            “Me, too,” Lisa demands.

            “Let me start from the top,” Frank says. He sets Junior down and shakes out his arms. Between Lisa’s stringy height and Junior’s chub, the kids are about the same weight. Finally. The few years when they had a huge gap made this game hard on Frank’s physique. He kept having to switch arms. He lifts them both at the same time. “You ready?” he asks. The kids cackle and nod. “Okay. Count for me.” Slowly, carefully, he lifts the kids toward the ceiling. “One….”

            “I’m leaving,” Maria calls. She walks to the door and taps the bell above it so it’ll jingle. Junior flails in Frank’s hold, laughter turning to whines. Frank sets him on his feet so he can run to Maria and cling to her leg. Lisa wraps her arms and legs around Frank’s arm so he won’t set her down. He holds her like that as he walks to the counter, where Maria’s set down two bolts of white fabric, one silk and one lace. Frank’s chest tightens. When Lisa’s dress is done, it’ll look like a wedding gown. Which they all do, those little girls’ First Communion dresses; it’s never struck Frank until now, seeing what the laughing child dangling from his arm will wear. She slides out of his grip to touch the silk. “Isn’t it nice?” Maria says as the cashier puts it in a plastic bag. “I think I’ll use it for the dress and some gloves.”

            “Oh my gosh,” Lisa says, eyes wide. She skips out the door ahead of them. Junior runs after her. Frank wraps an arm around Maria’s shoulders and kisses the top of her head to hide how choked up he is. The sun’s creeping toward the horizon, its light more orange than yellow as it touches Lisa’s hair. She turns around and skips backward down the sidewalk, giving Frank and Maria puppy dog eyes. “Can we cut through Central Park? Please?”

            “Yeah, I wanna cut through the park,” Junior says. He turns around and tries to skip backward, too. He makes it two steps before he trips over a crack and wipes out on the sidewalk. His lips wobble for a second before he pushes himself to his feet. Frank smiles. Good boy.

            “I don’t know,” Maria says, rolling her eyes in the most exaggerated way. She looks up at Frank, feigning concern. Strands of blonde hair fall across her eyes. “It’s getting pretty late….”

            “And we have to go to Mass in the morning,” Frank adds in his gruffest voice.

            Lisa and Junior jut their lower lips out. “Please?” they whine in unison.

            As soon as Frank and Maria make eye contact again, they burst out laughing. “Okay,” Maria wheezes over the kids’ whines, leaning hard on Frank. “Let’s cut through the park.”

            The sun really is close to setting when they make their way into Central Park. Frank’s on guard, though when is he not? Maria always says he’s being paranoid. She says it now, too: “Relax, Frank. You’re home.” She runs a soft hand over Frank’s forearm.

            “Don’t run far ahead,” he calls after the kids, who are having a skipping race down the path. The sidewalk is strangely deserted for this time of day, especially on a Saturday. Even the birds and squirrels aren’t making noise the way they should be. Frank’s muscles are all tight.

            The kids go around a bend, out of sight. “Wait,” Frank yells after them. Then Lisa screams.

            Frank’s running without thinking about it, rounding the corner and hauling both kids off their feet. Junior’s silent and stiff. Lisa won’t stop screaming. “What?” Frank demands, shaking her a little. “Lisa, what’s wrong?”

            “Frank,” Maria says behind him. Her voice cracks. “Frank, look up at the tree.”

            Frank’s heart is already in his throat from Lisa’s screams and the terror in Maria’s voice. When he sees the man, hanged by his own tie in an oak tree, he almost gags. Why would someone kill themselves here? he wonders numbly. Then he takes in the tears on the man’s button-down shirt. The blood on his face. His missing shoes.

            “Maria,” Frank says sharply. “Maria, take the kids.”

            “Why?” Maria asks, already moving forward to pull them from Frank’s grasp. Junior goes easily, limp, but Lisa yelps every time Maria pries one of her fingers away from Frank’s shoulder. Frank turns in a full circle as soon as his arms are free. He doesn’t see anyone in or behind the trees, but the shadows are lengthening, the sun at the horizon now. “Frank?” Maria asks again, voice tight.

         “Run,” Frank says. “Run back to the shop. Or out of the park, as far as you can get. Call 9-1-1 when you’re somewhere safe.”

          “What are you going to do?”

          “Make sure you get out of here.”

           Maria wants to stay with him. Frank can tell by the way her first two steps are small, slow. But she was with him in Afghanistan that first time. She knows what he sounds like when a situation’s life or death. After those two steps, she breaks into a run.

            It’s the Mob, Frank thinks, looking up at the hanged man. Sicilian Mafia. They hang people like that. Not usually in Central Park, but…Frank doesn’t know what kind of weapons they use. They’ll be wearing street clothes to blend in. This isn’t Afghanistan. Different territory. And it’s been years since Frank’s been military-sharp. He’s not sure he can sense anyone coming up on him until it’s too late. But surely the mobsters who hanged the guy would stick around to make sure the right person found his body, right? Surely they’re still over here. Frank’s eyes scan the bushes, the trees. His heart beats hard in his chest.

            A crack echoes down the path. Fireworks, Frank thinks wildly, even though he damn well knows better. And then his heart’s in his stomach and he’s running—because that’s Maria. That’s Maria screaming: “Frankie!”

            Frankie. Not Frank. Which means Junior—shit, shit, no, Frank made the wrong call. _Frank made the wrong call_.

            He rounds the bend not thinking about who or what’s on the ground. When he finds the first man holding a gun, he hits him under the chin, grabs the man's gun and swings it at his temple. Blood explodes there. The man crumples to the grass, foam at his mouth, but Frank’s already onto the next one, shooting him between the eyes. Three, there’s three of them. The last one comes at him with his head tucked low. He’s got a knife. There’s blood—Frank doesn’t think about that—he shoots, bam bam bam, rapid fire the way he learned in basic. The guy keeps coming. Rage does that, fuels you when you should be dead. Frank catches him by his bullet-riddled shoulder, swings him around into a headlock, and snaps his neck.

            Frank drops the man. Holds onto his gun. Heaves in air: his chest burns. He hasn’t fought like this, to kill, not play, in years. He’s out of shape. He’s not looking at the path.

            And then he is, all of a sudden, coming back to himself, dropping to his knees by Junior,  chubby Junior, sweet stubborn boy with a bullet between his wide-open eyes, no, why did Frank send them ahead? And Maria, God, no, Maria who knows six constellations when she’s sober has blood pouring from a gash in her throat. Frank reaches for her pulse, but his fingers slip in blood. Red stains the tips of her blonde hair. Maria who laughs during sex, who teaches the first-graders how to take someone to the mat, who winked at Frank the day he met her, no, no, nothing. Lisa’s fabric is strewn across the sidewalk, fluttering with a sudden breeze.

            Lisa. “Lee. Lee!” Frank yells, not seeing her at first. Then he hears a tiny gurgling cough. Her pink tennis shoes flash behind a bush, where the man with the knife had been hiding. Frank lunges toward her, half-running and half-crawling, fingertips scraping raw on the pavement. He drops the gun.

           At first he thinks she’s just stunned because he’s looking at her face, her neck, and they’re clean. Then he notices the red staining her shirt. And he looks down. And he sees. He sees.

          “Daddy,” Lisa chokes. “Daddy, I’m scared.” Frank reaches for something, anything, to stop the blood. He fingers find the silk fabric. He presses it to her stomach, uses it to hold in her guts, slowly slipping out, warm through the silk against his hand. He used to touch her hand through Maria’s stomach. “Daddy,” Lisa says, voice etched with pain.

            Frank lies down by her, still holding her together one-handed. He can lift her in one hand. He could do it now, but she’d spill apart. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s running on training: if you can’t save, soothe and reassure. If you can’t save. If you can’t. Frank kisses Lisa’s clammy forehead. “Daddy’s here, sweetheart. Princess, it’s okay. It’s okay, Lisa. Daddy’s here. Daddy loves you, baby. Daddy loves you. I love you. I love you. Lisa.”

            She’s not breathing. The silk’s gone cold, heavy with blood. Frank rolls on his side, facing away from Lisa, to vomit. Lisa’s scared of throwing up. She can’t see him—can’t see him anyway.

            Frank lies there until the police patrol finds him. They’ve found the hanged man. He’s not a suspect. They offer to take him to the hospital. He says no. He tells them Maria’s mom’s number, her dad’s number. He lets them take the bodies. Bury them in Sicily. Bury them in Jersey. Bury them somewhere that isn’t here.

            Frank washes the blood off two weeks later in a gas station in Ithaca. He sleeps outside there. He won’t go back to the apartment. He won’t look at the newspaper.

            He thinks about the Carolini family: raped, garroted. He wonders if he could break into Rikers and hang their killer in his sleep.

#

Part Four: Frank and Joan

            “This is the best job fair in upstate New York,” the woman at the folding table outside the YMCA says. Frank nods. He bought a button-down shirt at Goodwill and buzzed his hair for the occasion. He took three showers in the Y’s locker room beforehand. It’s been two years, but he swears he’s still drenched in blood. He doesn’t let himself think their names. He puts on the nametag the woman hands him, Hello My Name is FRANK, and ducks into the gym.

            Folding table to folding table: car dealerships, nature preserves, literacy centers, Frank hits up all of them. They watch him all warily, the car salesmen and the trail guides and the teachers. His resume says military, then nothing. Nothing in almost a decade. There’s no way to put on a resume that he spent all but two of those years raising kids. They see his hard eyes and think PTSD. Think unstable. Frank keeps going.

            The last folding table he goes to is painted black with a silver eagle on it. The guy standing beside it is wearing purple hearing aids. He grins easily when Frank strides up to him. “Hi, my name is Clint Barton,” he says, holding out a hand to shake. He’s got a tight grip, Frank notes, grudgingly approving. Calluses on his hands like he holds a weapon a lot. Not quite like a gun. A bow?

            “Frank,” Frank says. His voice is hoarse. He hasn’t done this much talking in years. He doesn’t like it. “Frank Castiglione.”

            “Got any experience in modeling, Frank?”

            Frank snorts. “Do I look like a model?”

            Clint’s eyes sweep the length of his body. Several times. Frank can feel his face heating up. Clint nods. “Yeah. Yeah, you could be.”

            “You want a thirty-nine-year-old homeless vet to model for you?”

            Clint shrugs. “Well, that’s part of what SHIELD does.”

            “Modeling,” Frank says. He looks at the black-and-silver table. At the eagle. Back at Clint. “Sure you’re not spies?”

            Clint snorts this time. “I would be a terrible spy, are you kidding? Hey, Phil,” he calls across the room. “Phil!” Frank follows his gaze. A mild-looking middle-aged man in a suit is looking at Clint, a wry smile on his lips. “Frank here thinks we’re spies,” Clint says.

            “It was a joke,” Frank grumbles.

            Phil makes his way over to them, still smiling. “Well, we aren’t very successful spies if we are spies,” he says. He gives Frank the same once-over that Clint did before he turns to Clint, eyebrows raised. “Imagine Tony as a spy.”

            “He’d start whining and give us all away,” Clint says, grinning.

            “Do you model?” Phil asks Frank.

            What the hell, Frank thinks. “How much will you pay me?”

            “SHIELD’s full-time employees earn an average of $46,000 a year. Of course, this includes all-inclusive health insurance, as well as dental, and you would receive up to three weeks PTO. This number can be negotiated if, for example, you know you have a medical condition that will require attention.”

            Frank’s mouth is hanging open. He’s stuck on $46,000, then on health insurance, and then on three weeks of paid time off. He shakes his head hard. “For modeling?” he asks incredulously. There’s a catch. There’s always a catch.

            “Our employees at SHIELD do a variety of jobs, from modeling to acting to writing. All of these jobs are for the purpose of selling products. Oh, I don’t think I’ve introduced myself properly. I’m Phil Coulson, the owner and operator of SHIELD.”

            Frank shakes his hand—it’s softer than Clint’s, but his grip is just as strong—and thinks hard. Modeling. Acting. And writing? He thinks about the once-overs Clint and Phil gave him. His jaw tightens. “You make porn.”

            “Yeah, sometimes,” Clint says.

            “We pride ourselves in being more respectful than what you usually consider porn,” Phil says. “The pay grade should indicate that. You can take a look at one of our packets if you like.”

            “I trained to be a priest,” Frank says quietly. Phil’s face starts to close up. Frank finds himself saying, “I didn’t become one, though. Can’t forgive. Went into the Marines instead.”

            Phil nods. “We have a few employees and friends who have been in the armed forces,” he says. “Some who still are in them.”

            Clint elbows him. “You forgot the part where you were an Army Ranger, Phil,” he says, a cheeky grin on his face.

            Phil actually blushes, cheeks tinged pink. “That was a long time ago,” he says. “What do you say, Frank? At least look at the packet. If you don’t like what you see, you’re under no obligation to us.”

            Frank knows a sales pitch when he hears one. He knows what the Church thinks about pornography. He knows what he thinks about pornography: women being used, abused, for entertainment. Women as commodities, not people. But Phil’s handing him a manila envelope. Frank moves to the side, out of the path of other people, and peels it open. Papers slide out first: contracts and insurance details. But then there are the photos.

            Frank’s expecting plastic tits and gaudy makeup. He’s expecting girls being spitroasted by guys twice their age. He’s not expecting Clint, naked, bound in purple rope and kneeling in front of a red-haired woman who looks like she lives in stilettos. She’s running a riding crop across his cheek in almost a loving stroke. The look Clint’s giving her—worship, that’s all Frank can think. Clint worships this woman. Frank doesn’t know a whole lot about photography, but he’s seen porn before, and the lighting in these photos isn’t tacky like that. These photos are—well, they’re beautiful. Cinematic.

            Frank’s not gay. He doesn’t think so, anyway. He can’t explain why his gaze lingers on Clint’s hard cock. He studies the ropes binding Clint. They look snug, but not as if they’re biting into Clint’s skin. Whoever tied him up knew what they were doing. And Clint likes it. Sure, porn stars can get hard for just about anything, but Frank looks at Clint’s adoring gaze. He hears Clint laughing as he talks to Phil. Easy, teasing. Clint’s happy.

            “Okay,” Frank says. His throat aches a little. He really has been talking too much today. “Okay, go through this contract with me, Phil.” Phil turns and beams at him. Actually beams. Who the fuck are these guys? “I’m not saying ‘yes’ yet,” Frank warns.

            “That’s perfectly all right,” Phil says. He sits opposite Frank and pulls out a pen. “Let’s see what we can do for you.”

            The SHIELD building looks like a hospital on the outside, all crisp white walls and clean black lettering. Frank gets off the city bus down the street and walks the rest of the way. As he goes around to the front door, he notices a playground tucked against the side of the building. A group of children, maybe three years old, is going down a twisting slide. Frank’s stomach clenches—child molesters?—before he remembers, faintly, that his paperwork mentioned a daycare for preschool-aged children. Frank skimmed that part of the contract. Not relevant to him anymore.

            The receptionist who buzzes Frank in has her dark hair swept into a bun. She’s younger than him by about ten years, but her name tag reads MARIA in a careful script. That’s enough for Frank to nod wordlessly as she directs him down the hall to Phil’s office. His heart pounds in his ears, in his itching eyes, in his clenched fingers. He’s shaking a little when he knocks on Phil’s door.

            “Come in,” Phil calls. Frank pushes open the door and finds Phil sitting by a neat oak desk. A bald man who’s Phil’s age, maybe a little older, sits on his desk, drinking what Frank guesses is coffee out of a Styrofoam cup. He’s wearing black on black: he even has a black eyepatch. He looks Frank over appraisingly with his good eye.

            “This the new guy, Cheese?” he asks.

            “Yes, this is Frank,” Phil says. “Frank, meet Nick Fury.”

            Nick has a strong grip and warm, rough hands. He’s shorter than Frank—most people are—but not by much, and even though he must be in his fifties, he’s still got muscle. He looks familiar. “Am I in _Pulp Fiction_?” Frank asks gruffly. He can’t help himself.

            Nick rolls his eye. “Okay, kid,” he says.

            It’s been years since anyone’s called Frank “kid.” Frank can’t help smiling a little. “I could’ve said something about snakes on—”

            “Yeah, yeah,” Nick says, talking over Frank. He waves him off and drinks his coffee. “You decided your affiliation yet?”

            “No,” Phil says before Frank can answer. “That’s what we’re going to discuss once Natasha comes back.”

            Frank’s shoulders tense. The contract had talked a lot about SHIELD’s BDSM focus. It doesn’t surprise Frank. He’s been in a sex shop before. He knows what sells. He was just…hoping Phil would spare him. Obviously not.

            “Well, you’re already thinking of something if this is why you brought Natasha in today,” Nick says. He’s giving Phil a look that Frank recognizes, a look that Matt used to give him sometimes in seminary school. Phil nods, spreading out his hands in the tiniest of so-sue-me shrugs.

            Frank shifts his weight. “Who’s Natasha?” he asks.

            “Natasha Romanoff,” Phil says. “Our resident Domme. She’s the one who’s in the photographs with Clint.”

            “Oh.” Frank thinks about the red-haired woman in the impossible stilettos and the gently threatening way she brushed the riding crop against Clint’s cheek. He swallows. “You want me with her?”

            “Mm. Clint’s making his way through college, finally, and he doesn’t have as much time for work as he’d hoped. And Natasha’s been asking for a new partner for a while.”

            “What’s wrong with Clint?” Frank asks, a little defensively. He’s not particularly gay, but he remembers Clint’s carved muscles and worshipful look well.

            “Doesn’t put his clothes in the laundry,” a wry female voice says from behind Frank. He turns around and finds Natasha herself standing behind him. She’s shorter than he expected: in the photograph, with those heels and with Clint kneeling, she looked tall and threatening. Even barefoot, as she is now, she looks a little menacing, like a femme fatale from a 40s film noir. But Frank is sure he could lift her in one arm without much trouble. She brushes past him and takes the cup of coffee from Nick. Once she’s done drinking, he cranes his neck so she can kiss him, once on his mouth and once just to the left of his missing eye. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she says.

            “You’re welcome, Miss.” Nick was relaxed with Phil, but somehow he relaxes even more when Natasha speaks to him. With her standing by him, Frank realizes just how young she is. Twenty-five? Not thirty, he’s sure of that. He rubs his face. Now he feels old again.

            “Do you work here, too?” he asks, making sure to look at Nick.

            Nick barks out a laugh. “You kidding me? No, no, I just belong to Tasha. What I do for work is classified.”

            “CIA,” Natasha says, _sotto voce_. Nick heaves a sigh.

            “Oh,” Frank says. Feeling stupid. Wrong-footed. _“I just belong to Tasha,”_ Nick said. Not even “belong with.” “Belong to.” As if she owns him. Looking at them, Nick ducking his head again so Natasha can gently rub it, like she’s petting a cat, Frank gets the world-shifting idea that Natasha does own Nick.

            “Go help Tony strike the set,” Natasha says. Ordering, not asking. Nick heads out the door, tossing his empty cup in the recycle bin as he goes. “Tell him I said he has to listen to instructions,” she calls after Nick. There’s a muffled _Yes, Miss,_ before the door shuts.

            Frank clears his throat. “Do you live like that?”

            Natasha looks at him with a piercing gaze. “Like what?”

            “Ordering Nick around.”

            “Nick, Tony, Pepper, Bruce, and Clint,” Natasha says.

            Frank stares. “They let you?”

            “You can’t follow orders?” Natasha asks.

            Frank scowls. “I can follow orders. I was in the Marines. I just don’t like having to follow them all the time. No autonomy?”

            Natasha tilts her head to the side. Frank gets the uncomfortable feeling that she’s seeing right through him. “You’ll change your mind when you find the right one,” she says. “Though right now I have to clarify that the right one is not me. Not yet. I don’t usually mix work and play this early on.”

            “Believe me, I’m not looking,” Frank mumbles.

            “Why don’t you both sit down,” Phil interjects smoothly. “So we can go over what I expect, and what you expect, if you work together on shoots.”

            Frank drops into a hard-backed chair and runs his hand over his hair. Natasha perches on the desk, where Nick sat before. “I’m listening,” she says, eyes fixed on Frank. His armpits prickle like he’s starting to sweat.

            Phil pulls out a list. “In a relationship,” Natasha says, “you don’t necessarily need a signed and notarized contract as long as you know each other’s safewords and hard limits. But it has to be a little clearer for SHIELD.”

            Frank frowns at the list Phil hands him. “I don’t know what the hell this means,” he says.

            Phil and Natasha exchange glances. “Well, let’s go through it,” Phil says.

            Hard limits: actions, primarily sexual but sometimes not, that a person is not okay with ever under any circumstances. Frank says that to whips, knives, guns—even unloaded, even props. He tries not to gag at bloodplay. “Not many people can do that,” Phil says.

            “I don’t think we ever have at SHIELD,” Natasha has, tucking her hair behind her ear.

            “Good,” Frank says fiercely. “Because if you tried, I’d fuck you up.” His heart’s hammering. He’s not thinking about Central Park.

            “Noted.”

            Soft limits: actions, sexual or otherwise, that a person thinks they aren’t okay with but would be open to trying under certain circumstances. Frank says that to gags and nipple clamps. “What about sugar gags?” Natasha says. “They melt in your mouth.”

            “Like Pixie Stix?” Frank finds himself asking.

            “More like the stick from Fun Dip,” Phil says, straightfaced.

            Frank’s mouth waters at the thought of sugar like that pooling on his tongue. He clears his throat. “Sure, fine.”

            SSC: Safe, Sane, Consensual. RACK: Risk-Aware Consensual Kink. SHIELD only works with SSC. But Natasha wants Frank to know about RACK, too, “for future reference.” “Set boundaries,” she says. “If your Dom doesn’t listen, they’re not a good Dom.”

            “What if I’m the Dom?” Frank asks roughly. Natasha raises her eyebrows at him. His face burns. He digs his ragged nails into the wood of the chair. “You don’t know me.”

            “No, I don’t,” she says. “But I know Phil, and I trust his judgment. And I know your type.”

            “My type?”

            “Like Nick.” Natasha tugs absentmindedly at one of her curls. “Tough guys are usually the ones who crave being taken care of the most. Believe me. I have a whole collection.”

 

            “There are a few ways we can get physically comfortable with each other,” Natasha says a week before they’re scheduled for their first shoot. “The most straightforward way is to hug. That’s how Clint and I did it,” Natasha says when Frank rolls his eyes. “I got used to his size, and he got used to my touch. If you can hug someone for an extended period of time, you can do just about anything with him. But we could also dance together. That’s Phil’s method. Or we could work out.”

            “Work out,” Frank says quickly, before Natasha can come back around to hugging. “Do you box?”

            Natasha raises her eyebrows. “You want to box with me?” Frank shrugs. She smirks, this lazy cat smile. “You might wish you’d picked the hug. Our gym is at the back entrance. Meet me there at seven.” It’s not a question. Frank’s face heats up. He wants to tell her to fuck off, but Natasha’s already headed down the hall, back to the studio where she’s doing a shoot in sheer black lingerie. Frank’s eyes linger on her ass.

            He’s outside the gym at 6:45, hands already wrapped to protect his knuckles. Natasha pulls up in a black Lambo at 6:55. Frank wants to either gently stroke its hood or piss on its seats when Natasha isn’t looking.

            “Sorry,” Natasha says as she climbs out of the car. She’s got her hair pulled into a high ponytail, and she’s wearing a neon green sports bra and black yoga pants. “I know you military guys like to be early, but I had a little trouble getting out the door.”

            “If you’re early, you’re on time. If you’re on time, you’re late.” Frank shoves his hands in the pockets of his shorts. “When’d you learn to box?”

            “When I was five. Believe me, I know what I’m doing.” Natasha swipes in with a SHIELD keycard and leads the way into the cavernous gym. She only flicks on the set of lights over the boxing ring in the far corner. Frank doesn’t realize he’s said _holy shit_ out loud until Natasha smiles. “Isn’t it beautiful? Phil had this built last year. We used to have a group membership to a public gym, but this is easier for our purposes.”

            “And the daycare?” Frank asks. Natasha frowns. Frank shrugs, voice tight. “When? Why?”

            “It’s been here since the beginning,” Natasha says. “Phil’s a big believer in education. He has the setbuilders put together a puppet show for the kids every week. It’s more convenient for parents.”

            “And they kids aren’t traumatized?”

            “It’s removed enough that they don’t see anything. What they learn about their own parents is their parents’ business. Wrap your hands.”

            Frank holds up his hands. “Way ahead of you.”

            “Good,” Natasha says, ducking into the ring. “Let’s fight.”

            Frank doesn’t plan on pulling his punches. The women he’s known would never have appreciated it, and he’s pretty sure that Natasha can hold her own. He’s just not prepared for how damn good she is. Good Irish knuckles, he thinks when they clip his jaw. She beats him onto the ropes and then lets him off only to corner him again. A hard strike to his chin sends him reeling, down onto the mat. He pushes himself to his feet. When he wipes his nose on his shoulder, there’s a trail of blood.

            A real fight would have breaks, time for water, time for air. Natasha keeps pushing. Frank lets her. He’s going to win, dammit. He’s going to prove himself. He might be her sub for money, but he’s not controllable. She’s just so fast. When did he get so slow? Or is she just that good?

            Frank thinks he’s got her. He presses her back and back again, against the ropes. He raises a fist for the KO—and then he’s blind, hearing gone. He opens his eyes on the mat. Natasha looms over him. Frank grits his teeth and tries to push himself up, but his gelatin arms can’t hold him.

            “Give it up,” she says, sounding like she’s underwater. Frank shakes his head. He presses his shaking palms against the mat and tries to lift himself again. He makes it two inches before collapsing. Natasha’s hand is impossibly heavy on his spine. He snarls. His eyes burn. “Give it up,” Natasha says again, voice calm. Frank swats at her and misses. He can feel the thrum of his heart though all of his skin. “Frank. Be good. Be a good boy. Give it up.”

            “Not your boy,” Frank snaps. His throat feels raw. “Not good.”

            Natasha’s hand presses against the back of his neck. The wrap is rough against his skin. Frank blinks hard. He’s trembling finely. “Frank,” Natasha says, sharp and clear.

            Frank goes limp. He stares at the white mat. Sweat drips from his hair. He can’t stop shaking.

            Natasha’s hand disappears. Then it’s on his shoulders, urging him upright. Frank’s head spins. He can hold his water bottle himself, but…but he doesn’t mind Natasha holding it for him, cupping a hand beneath his chin while he drinks. Her right eye is rimmed with purple. Frank grins ferociously.

            “Yeah, you got me,” Natasha says wryly. She offers him the water bottle again. Frank still doesn’t try to take it from her. He just opens his mouth. It feels right. Feels good to tilt his head back and, sweating and shivering, let someone else do the work. “Good,” Natasha praises again. A sound works its way out of Frank’s sore throat.

            “Not,” he says quietly.

            Natasha shakes her head. “I don’t care about whatever you’re thinking about. That doesn’t matter here. Here? In this ring? You were good for me. You fought me like I asked you to. You gave in when I asked you to. And now you’re letting me take care of you. That’s what it’ll be like during a shoot.”

            “Except for me fighting back.”

            Natasha tilts her head. “Actually, I want you to. It’ll look better. You’re beautiful when you fight.”

            Frank blinks. Natasha gets a cool cloth and wipes off his face. He’s coming out of whatever trance he’s in by the time she’s done. He shakes himself and grabs onto the ropes to haul himself to his feet. Natasha follows him with a hand resting in the crook of his elbow. She walks him outside like that. He shivers at the blast of cold air. It’s almost ten.

            “Do you need a ride?” Natasha asks.

            Frank scowls at her Lambo. “Asshole,” he says. “Busses run until midnight.”

            Natasha smiles. “Suit yourself. I’ll see you on Monday?”

            Frank cracks his neck and nods. “Bright and early.”

            His heart pounds in his ears all the way home.

 

            The first shoot is basically the same pose as the one Clint was in, except Frank’s bound by black leather. “Looks good with your skin,” Phil explains. Frank snorts, but secretly he trusts him. They wrap his cock in even softer leather. He’s not hard yet, but Natasha’s watching him with fire in her eyes and that riding crop in her hand.

            She nudges him with her toe when he kneels awkwardly in front of her. “You going to mouth off, boy?” she asks.

            “I told you,” Frank growls. “I’m not your boy.” There’s a click, a flash. Oh, right, pictures.

            Natasha raises her eyebrows. It’s a look she seems to give everyone all the time without much thought, but with all of her makeup, her black leather leotard, and those stilettos, the expression is truly threatening. Frank bares his teeth. Natasha sighs and studies her long red nails. “I don’t know many Doms who would put up with a sub like you.”

            “Well, then, why are you?” Frank snaps. He knows he’s acting, but something real pricks at the inside of his skin.

            Natasha nudges his chest with the crop. “Because,” she says. She runs it over Frank’s nipples. He suddenly can’t breathe. “I know you. I know how pretty you are when you give it up for me. Hm?” She strokes his cheek with the crop. “Are you going to be a pretty boy for me?”

            “Fuck off,” Frank snarls. Natasha’s eyebrows creep higher, but she nods fractionally. The camera’s still going off.

            Natasha shrugs. “I guess I’ll have to beat you again,” she says nonchalantly. “Put you in your place.”

            The crop strokes along Frank’s lips. He opens his mouth and bites. His teeth sink into soft leather.

            “Good,” Phil calls before Frank can panic. Biting the crop wasn’t part of the instructions. Now that he’s doing it, he feels stupid. He tenses.

            Natasha notices immediately. She pulls the crop out of his mouth and crouches in front of him. She scratches her talons along his scalp. Frank gets the feeling that if his hair were long enough, she’d yank it. “Focus on me,” she says sternly. “Just me.” Frank nods shortly. In a quieter voice, Natasha adds, “Give it up.” She presses her hand against the back of Frank’s neck. Frank’s breath hitches. Natasha stands and presses the crop against his mouth. Not teasing this time. Demanding. “Give it up,” she says. Frank presses his lips together. “Frank,” she snaps. “Give it up. Give it up, boy. Give it—”

            Frank snaps his jaws around the crop. Natasha yanks it away and slaps him with it once, hard, right over the spot that’s still bruised from their boxing match. Frank gasps, head jerking up. Natasha catches him under the chin with the crop and holds him there, neck exposed. Snap and flash, snap and flash. Sweat drips down the side of Frank’s face.

            “Damn,” Clint says when Natasha and Frank come off the set an hour later. “Couldn’t have picked a better replacement myself.” He winks at Frank. Frank rolls his eyes and trudges to the changing room. He pauses halfway through stripping out of the bondage. He hadn’t realized his cock was hard.

 

            With his first paycheck from SHIELD, Frank gets an apartment, utilities included. He sits in the empty living room, designing booby traps that he leaves around the door and all the windows. He sleeps under his coat in the nook where the bed should be. He orders pizza for a week straight.

            That Sunday, there’s a knock at his door. Frank sets aside a roll of barbed wire and picks up his pistol. “Yeah,” he calls roughly.

            There’s a shuffling sound on the carpet outside. The tiniest sigh. A clink. Then footsteps retreat. Frank counts to a hundred five times before he lets himself peek through the peephole. No one is there, but there’s something sitting on his front mat.

            Frank opens the door and looks up and down the hall. Nobody. He tucks the gun in his waistband and picks up the pie tin. He sniffs. Apple, still hot.

            Frank means to savor it, but he’s hungry. He wolfs it down in one night, stomachache be damned. Someone with blonde pigtails and a wrestling unitard would have stolen all of the cinnamon from the top.

 

            Phil shows him the prints from his first shoot on Monday. Frank recognizes himself, but barely. The black leather really does look good in contrast with his skin. The three-photo spread is for SHIELD’s sex toy catalog. Frank hopes for a second that no one he knows orders from that catalog. Then he realizes he doesn’t give a shit. The first photo is him baring his teeth at Natasha while she eyes him, unimpressed. The middle photo is from the moment when he bit the crop. He’s all hard muscles—and cock, Frank realizes, trying and failing to not be surprised—and white teeth against black leather. The camera caught the tension as Natasha started to tug the crop away from him. He looks feral, especially with the scar over his eye.

            Then there’s the last photo: Natasha tipping his chin up with the crop, his body gleaming with sweat, his eyes glazed. He doesn’t look worshipful like Clint did. He looks…well, he looks fucked up. Frank doesn’t remember looking like that.

            TAME YOUR BEAST WITH SHIELD’S NEW LEATHER LINE, the top of the page reads. Frank runs a hand over his hair. “Fuck, though,” he says without thinking.

            Phil smiles. “Like it?”

            Frank shrugs. “It’s okay.”

            Phil’s smile widens as if he can see right through Frank. He probably can. Dammit. He presses the catalog into Frank’s hands. “It’s traditional to keep a copy of your first shoot.”

            “Why?” Frank mumbles. “Not like I’ll show it to anyone.”

            Phil shrugs. “You never know.”

            There’s a knock at Frank’s door at the same time that night. “Yeah?” he calls, already moving toward the door. There’s a shuffling sound and then feet sprinting down the hall. Frank opens the door as fast as he can—just in time to hear another door slam. Dammit. He picks up the plate—an assortment of cookies, all homemade, oatmeal raisin and shortbread and sugar and gingerbread and chocolate chip. A heart-shaped Post-It in the center of the plate says, _Hope you liked the pie. No peanuts here._

            Frank still doesn’t ration. He’s going to get fat, and he’ll lose this bizarre kinky modeling job. But the cookies are so good. A chubby hand should be sneaking across the table to steal an oatmeal raisin.

 

            This continues for two weeks: shoots during the day, usually with him naked and tied up, usually with Natasha looming over him. Baked sweets at night, all left by a mysterious neighbor who runs away before Frank can meet her. He assumes it’s a her, considering the looping cursive and the heart-shaped notes, but considering his coworkers maybe he needs to stop assuming anything. _Cherry snow loaf—grandma’s recipe_ is followed by _red velvet cheesecake brownies because everyone loves red velvet, I’m sorry if you don’t_ is followed by _banana cream pie, take an umbrella tomorrow, it’s going to rain!_ By the third Saturday in the apartment, Frank’s reached _Lemon meringue pie. It’s been a long week for me and maybe for you too, you come home with cuts and I worry, whatever you’re doing please be careful and make sure to use Neosporin._ He sits in the kitchen and eats the whole pie, brooding. His chest is tight and warm in ways that make him angry. He got rid of his wedding ring right after Central Park. He wishes he hadn’t pawned it. He should have been loyal. Should be.

            It’s just pie, he tells himself.

            On Sunday, he’s ready. He waits by the door for almost an hour, heart beating too fast in his chest. He’s almost forty, for God’s sake. Too old to act like a lovestruck middle schooler over someone he’s never seen. He’s not even lovestruck. He’s just curious.

            As soon as the stranger knocks, Frank pulls open the unlocked door. The slip of a person outside squeaks and drops the tin she’s carrying. Luckily it’s sealed tight; none of whatever sweet’s inside spills onto the carpeting. The woman cringes, backing up, ducking her head so her face is obscured by her hair. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll stop bothering you,” she says, her voice trembling.

            “Hey, no,” Frank says, caught off guard. He takes a step forward, then realizes that he’s basically twice her size and thinks better of it. He crouches instead and picks up the tin. _Dear neighbor, have some more sugar cookies. From a can because I’ve been busy, I’m so sorry, but they’ve got cats and pumpkins on them so at least they’re cute! Watch the weather tomorrow. It might storm. Do you have a weather radio? <3 _Frank reads it twice before he straightens up. “Thanks,” he says gruffly. His face is burning. “For keeping me fed.”

            The woman peeks at him. It has the effect of making her look very young, but Frank can tell from the faint lines under her eyes and by her mouth that she’s Natasha’s age, maybe a little older. Not a child. Just skittish. “You don’t think it’s stupid?” she asks warily.

            Frank shakes his head, laughing. He realizes belatedly how harsh his laugh can sound. He clears his throat. “Want to come in?” he asks. “I, uh, don’t have a whole lot of furniture.”

            The woman peers around him. “But you have barbed wire?”

            Frank’s muscles tighten. He shrugs. “I like to be safe.”

            The woman looks at him with wide, serious eyes. She nods. “I understand.” Frank frowns. He gets the feeling she really does understand. “You should have furniture, though,” she says, nearly scolding. “You’ll get sick sleeping on the floor. Do you at least have a refrigerator?”

            “Uh.” Frank runs a hand over his hair.

            The woman sighs. Her mouth purses. “Are you eating anything but sweets? Do you need food? I’ll start bringing over fruit and vegetables.”

            “No, no, no,” Frank says quickly. “No, I’m okay with sweets.”

            The woman giggles. The sound is high and clear. Frank’s heart stutters. She’s not beautiful in a traditional way: she’s got a pointed face and is just so small. But the way she’s looking at him, the way she’s looking after him…. Frank wets his lips. She’s beautiful in a different way, this strange, shy neighbor. And he wishes he hadn’t pawned his ring, but a terrible guilty part of him is glad he’s not wearing it.

            “Come inside,” he says. “Please. Where it’s safe.” The words tumble out of his mouth. He hates sounding paranoid, being paranoid, but he’s started scanning the hall behind her for guns. For knives. For hanged men.

            The woman slips past him into his apartment. She toes off her shoes and perches on one of his kitchen chairs. Frank, who’s never taken shoes off inside since Central Park, pulls off his shoes and sets them next to hers. Hers could fit inside his, be swallowed up by him. Frank looks at the woman in his kitchen and feels his chest expand with anxious warmth. He gets the sudden wild urge to kneel at her feet. She doesn’t need a riding crop. She could tip his chin up with one finger.

            Frank shakes his head, trying to dislodge those thoughts. He doesn’t even know her name. “I’m Frank.” He hesitates, then adds, “Frank Castle.” It’s the name he’s using for SHIELD. For this woman, it feels right.

            The woman smiles brightly. “My name’s Joan. May I watch you eat my food?”

**Author's Note:**

> -Frank studying to be a priest: ["Before Frank joined the Marines, he was studying to become a Catholic priest but changed his mind because he was unable to forgive those who did evil."](http://marvel.com/universe/Punisher_\(Frank_Castle\)) .
> 
> -Joan is Joan the Mouse. 
> 
> Thanks to Not_You for allowing me to play around in this 'verse, and thanks to my wife for being my Joan.


End file.
